Plumagephobia
by absorbency
Summary: George Weasley is quite the pansy when it comes to his fears.


**Challenge: #1**

**Author**: Prongs, the most desirable of the marauders.

**Character:** George Weasley - **Emotion:** Fear - **Subject:** Feather

Summary: George Weasley is quite the pansy when it comes to his fears.

_**Plumagephobia**_

A fear of feathers… Is there a word for that? _Plumagephobia_, perhaps? Alright, I'm pretty sure that is not the correct term. Further, I reckon there is no word for it, seeing as nobody sound in mind is afraid of feathers. Nobody, that is, besides me.

For as long as I remember, I've been terrified to death of feathers. Yes, those soft things that owls and birds are covered in. They give me the chills. I've made excuses to go to the bathroom during the morning post, feigned sick to get out of Care of Magical Creatures lessons featuring hippogriffs. I always swerve down during Quidditch matches when the random canary fleets by. I just can't stand those damn feathers.

Before you scamper away screaming, "Psychopath alert! Chuck him in the loony bin!," calm down. There happens to be a method behind my madness. Well, sort of. You see, I had quite a petrifying experience in my earlier days.

Let us rewind back a few years, to when I was the young and innoce- well, nevermind. The age of six, anyways. We were outside the burrow, celebrating Ron's fifth birthday. Of course, Ickle Ronniekins was more intrigued with the bogies in his nose than the large birthday cake in front of him. You'd think he has mistaken his snot for galleons…. Anyways, mum is just about to cut the cake when this huge… thing… falls out of nowhere, right onto Ron's cake. This unidentified object seemed to be having some type of seizure right in the frosting. Then, it keeled over, obviously dead, right onto Ron's head. Ron screamed, and with surprising force for a five-year old, flailed around until the object seemed to get a second wind and leaped into my face.

At this point, I deduced that this thing was a bird. After making this discovery, I had enough brain capacity free to register the unpleasant taste of frosting and plumage in my mouth. I spit the bird out, but several remnants of feather still existed in my mouth. After a few minutes of choking on bird-cake, being thumped on the back, and my mother having a conniption, I finally managed to hack up what now resembled sugary spit with some hair-like ingredients.

For around a week after this incident, I would start wheezing at random intervals and then suddenly chuck up some more of this sickly solution. I reckon my carpet will never be the same.

Don't sound so crazy now, do I? Alright, I reckon I do to any outsiders. Well, if a batch of feathers had nearly taken your life at a tender age, I bet you wouldn't be laughing now.

Having such a pansy fear is difficult. I really wish I was scared of something a bit brawnier, like Scorpions or Animal Carcasses. I mean, Fred wouldn't be so quick to drop several Rotting Gazelles or A poisonous animal into my Hogwarts trunk before departure. But no, in fourth year, an idea struck him, and I didn't change for a week. I eventually made Percy fetch me some new underpants because I was truly rank at this point. I tucked one of our Canary Crèmes, which has still been in production at that point, into his pile of pancakes and bacon at breakfast the following week. Obviously, the crèmes still needed work, because he resembled a half-Fred, half-turkey for 3 weeks. (This plan, however, backfired, as turkeys happened to be covered in feathers.)

On the other hand, having such a strange phobia can, at some times, work to my advantage. Unless your date has a bird fetish, you can pretty much tell all the ladies that you're completely fearless. However, make sure your twin isn't in a 2-mile radius, so he can't levitate a box full of feathers on top of your head, drop it, and leave you to a crowd of highly amused pedestrians laughing their arses off at you, and you canter out of the room, shrieking like a girl.

But in a sense, what I fear is death. The reason I fear the plumage of birds, owls and hippogriffs is because I was close to death during my first close encounter of them. That makes me sort if noble, right? Or, maybe I totally just sacrificed my spine by adding this final remark. Either way, I just realized this quill consists of a long, white, handsome eagle feather.

Note to self: Invest in Muggle pens.

Comments:

_Moony-_ Gee, this is hilarious Prongs! I love the ending, especially the last line. I do like the way George tries to take his, rather pathetic, fear and make it into a much more 'manly' fear. Brilliant! Love the voice too. Sounds like George. Excellent work! Looking forward to the next challenge!

My Dearest Prongs… hah. This story is chuckle worthy. Really chuckle worthy, actually. My favorite line was the one about Ron and his bogies, oi wait a tick while I find it… here we are: _Ickle Ronniekins was more intrigued with the bogies in his nose than the large birthday cake in front of him._ That one had me laughing, as you can probably tell. Anyway, excellent story mate. Is this story written off of real-life experiences? I'm really sorry feathers scare you. Alright Adios- Padfoot.


End file.
